Chapter 3He Locked Me On The Interstate

I had given Wyatt that secondary card for his mother’s medical expenses.

When he had transitioned to his new firm, there was a gap between his pay cycles. His mother had been diagnosed with severe spinal stenosis, and I had spent my weekends driving her to specialist appointments, putting her physical therapy and copays on my card.

At the time, Wyatt had held me tight, whispering, "Lydia, once my signing bonus clears, I’ll pay you back every dime."

The bonus had cleared months ago.

Instead of paying me back, he had bought Myra a designer ski jacket because "she gets cold so easily in the winter."

Fiona helped me clean the scrape on my knee, then handed me a printed document.

"This is our store’s incident report," she said. "I’ve already saved the security footage from the showroom on a thumb drive. My manager told me not to hand it over privately, but you have every right to request it through formal legal channels."

She leaned in, lowering her voice further. "Lydia, the dashcam in your car has a separate loop-recording function. The footage of what happened on the highway should still be on the local storage card."

I nodded. But the car was gone, and the SD card was inside it.

Wyatt knew systems. He knew exactly how to erase a drive.

By the time I took an Uber back to the apartment, the rain had stopped, leaving only damp reflections on the pavement.

Before I could even finish punching in the keypad code to my door, the sound of laughter drifted through the wood.

Myra’s voice carried clearly. "Wyatt, this throw pillow is so cute! Can I take it to the lodge with us?"

And Wyatt's reply: "Take whatever you want."

That pillow was the very first item I had bought for our new home. A cream-colored, woven wool piece with the tags still attached.

When the door clicked open, the living room fell dead silent.

My car keys were lying carelessly on the coffee table. Myra was sitting in the center of the sofa, wrapped in my favorite cashmere throw.

On the balcony, Trent was smoking a cigarette, flicking the ashes directly into the pot of the English ivy my grandmother had given me before she passed.

Wyatt walked out of the kitchen holding a mug of steaming ginger tea. Seeing me, his brows knit together.

"You're back," he said, his tone flat. "Good. Myra got chilled in the rain and has a light fever. Go whip up some soup for her."

"I don't know how," I said.

Beside the shoe rack sat a pair of muddy snow boots, leaving dirty tracks across the hardwood floor I had spent the previous evening scrubbing. I remained standing at the entryway.

Wyatt handed the tea to Myra, refusing to meet my eyes. "Don't start with the attitude again. You put everyone through hell today. The least you can do is make dinner and apologize."

Myra looked down, clutching the mug. "Wyatt, maybe I should just go. I know Lydia is still angry with me. I don't want to make things difficult."

She said she wanted to leave, but her fingers tightened around my cashmere throw.

Trent stepped in from the balcony, stubbing his cigarette out on the railing. "Why should you leave? The only person who needs to go is the one acting like an unstable child. My cousin is sick, and she hasn't even gotten a single apology."

Wyatt looked at me. "Lydia. Apologize."

The warm, golden lighting of the apartment made the coldness in their eyes even sharper.

"Apologize to whom?" I asked.

"To Myra."

"For what? Because she wanted to take my car, because you remotely locked it and nearly got me killed, or because you used my credit card to book her luxury lodging?"

Myra’s eyes instantly flooded. "I didn't know the booking went on your card, Lydia. Wyatt told me it was his personal account."

A brief flicker of embarrassment crossed Wyatt’s face, but he quickly covered it with anger. "The card is in my name as an authorized user. I’ll transfer you the money. Do you really have to bring up finances in front of company? Is that who you are now?"

"Company?" I looked at Myra.

She immediately lowered her head, looking small and fragile.

Wyatt’s voice rose. "Myra isn't some stranger, Lydia."

"Then what am I?"

The question hung in the air, cold and heavy.

Wyatt stared at me as if I were a bug he wanted to crush. "Lydia, don't make me say things we both can't take back. We’ve been together for seven years. If you don't even have this basic level of trust in our relationship, then there’s no point in us getting married."

In the past, that threat would have sent a spike of panic through my chest.

Now, it just left a dull, aching throb. It wasn't the pain of a fresh wound, but the exhaustion of an old scar being torn open one too many times.

Myra suddenly stood up, her body swaying slightly. "Wyatt... my head is spinning..."

Wyatt caught her immediately. "You need to lie down. Go use the master bedroom."

My fingers tightened against the edge of the entryway console. "The master bedroom is my room."

Wyatt groaned in exasperation. "The bed is bigger, and she has a fever. She needs proper rest. You can crash in the study for one night."

Myra whispered, "I don't think that's a good idea, Wyatt. Lydia will mind."

Trent let out a loud snort. "She minds everything. Does the world revolve around her?"

Without another word, Wyatt scooped Myra up and walked straight toward my bedroom. As the door swung open, I caught a glimpse of my nightstand, where my grandmother's old silver heirloom bracelet lay.

It was the most precious thing I owned.

As Wyatt carried Myra past me, she leaned her head against his shoulder and murmured softly, "Lydia, Wyatt mentioned you're a really light sleeper. Please don't come in and wake me up tonight, okay?"

The master bedroom door clicked shut in my face.

Trent stepped forward, blocking my path to the hallway. "You heard her. Don't go looking for trouble."

I looked up at him, my expression blank.

A second later, Myra's delighted gasp echoed from behind the closed door. "Oh, Wyatt, look at this silver bracelet! It's so beautiful!"